


Fascination

by Todesengel



Series: Fascination [1]
Category: Voltron: Lion Voltron
Genre: Alien physiology, Dark, M/M, Rape, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-17
Updated: 2011-08-17
Packaged: 2017-10-22 17:13:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,115
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/240471
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Todesengel/pseuds/Todesengel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He's fascinated by these five human boys.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fascination

Zarkon watched the five human boys on the video screen, watched as they were processed and placed in the cell. He watched the way they moved, their interactions. Humans constantly amazed him. Take the leader of this little group, for instance. He was entirely unremarkable, appearing to be totally average in height and weight--there was nothing to set him physically apart from the mass of followers into that elite group of someone to be obeyed. The first time he had seen the five boys he had picked the large, hulking beast of boy as the leader--the Beast was obviously the strongest one there, and it was an unshakable rule that strength meant power, and the more strength the more power there was to take. He was, quite frankly, taken back a bit at the realization that it was this average looking boy who was the sun around which these other humans revolved. He couldn’t have been more surprised if the leader had been the little child, and the fact that the child was there at all was even more fascinating than this apparent destruction of the natural law of strength. He had always thought that humans were more careful with their spawn. To send a child into space--especially in an all male group--seemed incongruous with everything he had learned about humans

This group warranted closer study.

Zarkon beckoned one of his servants closer. “Bring me the leader.”

“Yes Milord.” The servant bowed his way out of the room, obsequious as always even though Zarkon’s attention had returned to the vid screen showing the humans’ cell. He watched with mounting confusion as the boys group around their leader when the guard entered, watched as they protected him like he was a female with a nest full of freshly laid eggs. If a ruler of Doom had allowed such weakness to show, he would have been dead before the next day cycle, throat ripped out and corpse eaten by the victor.

How such weak creatures ever managed to survive was a mystery; that they’d managed to spread their seed across a multitude of systems was nothing short of a miracle.

The doors of the audience chamber opened and a pair of guards marched the human leader in. They gave him a shove and the boy stumbled but didn’t fall. He stood proud and arrogant and met Zarkon’s eyes without fear.

The boy had courage, Zarkon had to give him that. Courage and pride and that was a delicious mix. Breaking this boy would be quite pleasurable indeed.

Zarkon dismissed his courtiers with a casual wave. He stalked around the boy, nostrils flaring as he tasted the boy’s scent, let the undercurrent of fear lie heavy and rich on his tongue. “Hello, human. Would you care to tell me what you were doing flying in my territory?”

“Saito, comma, Keith. Rank: Captain. Serial number: A-N-5-7-7-2-3-5-0-6-6.” Keith stood ramrod straight and didn’t flinch when Zarkon came close enough that his breath to ruffle Keith’s hair.

“What was that?” Zarkon ran his fingers lightly over Keith’s face, the rough skin of his palms and the pads of his fingers catching on the light stubble that gave Keith’s cheeks a slight shadow. He knew from experience that his skin felt like sandpaper to human skin and he had to admit that when the boy stood still and took the rough touch with no reaction whatsoever his opinion of his captive rose. As did his pleasure.

“Saito, comma, Keith. Rank: Captain. Serial number: A-N-5-7-7-2-3-5-0-6-6.”

“I see.” Zarkon let his lips pull back until the rows of his sharp teeth gleamed in the light. “Is that all you can say?”

The boy’s lips tightened as Zarkon’s rough caresses continued. “Saito, comma, Keith. Rank: Captain. Serial number: A-N-5-7-7-2-3-5-0-6-6.”

“Well, ‘Saito, comma, Keith’ I am Zarkon, Emperor of Doom and I am your new master.” In a lightning instant Zarkon changed his caress into a powerful backhand that sent Keith sprawling on the floor. The razor-sharp edges of his scales sliced into Keith’s tender flesh and blood flowed down his cheek to mingle with the red of his uniform. “So you will treat me with respect.”

Keith struggled back into a standing position, tongue probing the inside of his cheek. He’d bitten his lip as he fell and there was blood in his mouth--Zarkon could smell it. He spat small red dots onto Zarkon’s royal robes and glared at his captor.

“Saito, comma, Keith,” he said, blood leaking out of his mouth and giving him luridly red lips. “Rank: Captain. Serial number: A-N-5-7-7-2-3-5-0-6-6.”

Zarkon tsked and turned away. Such arrogance! Such pride! Oh humans were fun little toys indeed. And he had great plans for this particular human, this insolent brat who dared to treat Zarkon, Emperor of a thousand planets, as an equal. He summoned a guard back in. “Escort this slave back to his cell. I want him in my personal chambers tomorrow morning at the tenth hour of the day cycle.” Zarkon eyed the blood on Keith’s cheek. “And have somebody clean him up. I want him in perfect condition when I begin his torture.”

*

At the tenth hour of the day cycle, Zarkon entered his personal torture chamber with a smile on his face and Haggar at his side. He wasn’t surprised to see that the boy was already prepared for the day’s pleasures. Keith hung from the ceiling by a single chain, arms stretched high above his head and his wrists crossed; his legs were spread wide and chained to the floor. The cuts on his cheek had been healed nicely, leaving barely noticeable scars. The artificial sunlight shone on his naked body and Zarkon found himself growing excited at the smooth, blemish free skin before him. Here was a blank canvas for his art.

“Good morning, Keith,” Zarkon said. “I want you to meet Haggar, my witch. She’ll heal you if I happen to go a little…overboard and kill you.” The boy glared and spat. He tried to swing closer to Zarkon, murder and rage in his eyes and Zarkon laughed. “Ah ah ah. Is that any way to behave? I think we’re going to have to teach you a lesson in respect.”

Zarkon shed his royal robes and walked over to his tray of personal torture devices where he picked up the laser whip. He turned it on and the long, pulsing blade of pure, painful energy emerged from the blackened steel handle with a low hum. He flicked the whip a few times, loosening up his wrist, then held it up before Keith.

“Do you know what this is?” Zarkon flicked it again and the tip snapped and crackled against the marble floor. “This is a laser whip. A marvelous little device. The lash can be modified with just a turn of a handle. It can be longer or shorter, thicker, thinner, one lash or many. And it never has to be cleaned.” Zarkon adjusted the whip until a hundred thin, short lashes flowed from the handle. He walked behind Keith and with a flick sent the lashes cracking against the smooth expanse of Keith’s back. Keith screamed as his skin was flayed from his back in burning strips and his muscles’ spasmed in dancing agony. “Oh did I forget to mention? One touch from this lash stimulates muscular tissue. I’ve been told that it’s quite painful.” Zarkon critically examined the flesh before him. He cracked the whip again and again, sent it out to tickle the firm curve of Keith’s ass, to create a crosshatch pattern on Keith’s back, to score the back of Keith’s thighs. Keith lurched forward in his chains, though his shoulder sockets burned with the strain. Tiny beads of sweat began to form on his forehead and his throat closed around his screams. Zarkon leaned forward, scales smooth and cold against the burn of the lash. He captured Keith’s chin with his clawed fingers, pulled Keith’s head back until he could speak comfortably into Keith’s ear.

“That was just the lowest setting.” He released Keith, walked back around, eyed the patch of short, kinky hair that covered Keith’s flaccid manhood. “What do you say we try a higher level?”

*

On the fifth day cycle after the humans’ capture, Zarkon didn’t go immediately for the whip. Keith sighed in relief; and now Zarkon had to wonder at the fortitude of human adjustment. Four days of torture and the boy’s mind was already adjusting to the pain of hanging by his arms for hours on end and the constant agony of his striped skin.

“Amazing,” Zarkon said and he stepped close enough to Keith to be able to run his fingers down the hard planes of Keith’s chest. Keith raised his head in defiance against the rough touch and Zarkon could see the question burning in the back of Keith’s eyes. “Simply amazing. So much strength in such a fragile shell.” Zarkon let his claws scrape down Keith’s chest, then brought them to his face to lick the sweet, coppery blood away.

“Humans are such fragile creatures,” he continued. “It takes so little to pierce that soft skin of yours.” He ran his claws down Keith’s chest again, harder this time, leaving deep cuts that sent hot, rich blood flowing down Keith’s legs to drip and stain the metal floor. “You are so poorly designed. Your reproductive organs had absolutely no protection whatsoever.” He reached down, caressed Keith’s flaccid member once before gripping Keith’s testicles, glad that he had decided to get the boy’s genitals shaved. Hair was truly an overrated phenomenon. “So many, many things could rip these away and then where would you be?”

The boy’s balls shriveled in Zarkon’s grip and Zarkon laughed. He squeezed, lightly, twisted the little sack of skin he held so easily in his hand, and the boy went absolutely still, his breath shallow and harsh. Cold sweat dampened his skin and watered down the blood that still flowed freely down Keith’s body, over Zarkon’s hand. His fear was almost intoxicating and Zarkon licked away the sweat that coated Keith’s collarbone, wanting to drink in that terror. He tugged lightly on Keith’s testicles and the boy’s heart skipped a beat and then started to beat in a double-time syncopation of mindless fear. Keith whimpered, unintentionally, and bit through his lip. His eyes were large and wild, pupils dilated, and Zarkon was suddenly in love with the sight. He pulled down, harder this time and then let go and walked back to his tray of toys. He picked up his whip and faced Keith again. He adjusted the lash until it was long and thick and glowing blue-white.

“Now. Are you willing to tell me what you were doing in my territory now?”

Though the fear was palpable, the boy still managed to rally around that hard, iron core at the center of his being and spit his blood in Zarkon’s direction. Zarkon smiled and the whip danced across the intervening space to wrap around the base of the boy’s penis. The boy howled, jerked in his chains. Zarkon watched the shriveled flesh grow, the skin becoming smoother and smoother until the boy was, against his will, completely erect, body unable to react in any other way to the muscular stimulation and the constriction of the blood flow. He flicked his wrist and released the whip’s hold on the boy, then sent it flying out again and again. The tip raised delightful red welts on the tender flesh of the boy’s genitals and his screams were sweet music that vibrated in perfect harmony with Zarkon’s bones until he realized that the boy was shouting the same damn thing over and over.

Name.

Rank.

Serial number.

It was beginning to get on Zarkon’s nerves.

He adjusted the whip again, until there were many lashes instead of one. He began to whip the boy with real vigor, peeling long, thin strips of flesh away from his thin body. The boy’s screaming became inarticulate and then, suddenly, his eyes rolled up and he went limp and hung in his chains. Zarkon sent the whip flying out one more time in pique then stopped, took deep breaths to calm down.

He turned the whip off and summoned a servant. “Get him cleaned up and healed, then return him to his cell.” Zarkon pulled his robes, and paused as a new idea slowly formed. “No, wait. After he’s been healed bring him back here. I have further need of him.”

*

Zarkon left the boy alone for another three cycles. When he returned it was to find Keith lying on his back, lips starting to chap and eyes fixed on some distant and imagined image. His bound arms were held close to his chest, and he moved his fingers slightly, as though he were conducting an orchestra and not lying naked and abused on a cold metal floor. He was singing a nonsense song about lilly-white boys and when Zarkon leaned in close, he smiled and said in a slightly apologetic fashion, “I can’t remember what nine is. I’ve got ten and eleven and twelve, but I can’t remember nine.”

“Why are you singing, Keith?” Zarkon asked.

“It’s Christmas. We always sing ‘Green Grow the Rushes-Ho’ at Christmas.” Keith licked his lips and his eyes were sunken in and dull. “Are there nine proud walkers? Or is that six?”

Zarkon stared at the young man before him, amazed by the strange transformation that had come over the boy. If three days of isolation were enough to make the boy’s mind lose control and let him babble about this thing called Christmas, what would a week do? A month? A year? Or would this isolation bring only more nonsense words and sunken eyes?

Keith licked his lips again and Zarkon suddenly remembered that, unlike his people, humans needed water every day. His slave drivers had told him of this phenomenon, what the human doctors they kept around to treat their slaves called dehydration. That this lack of water could quite rapidly lead to death.

Well. Zarkon wasn’t quite done with Keith yet and he’d be damned if he let anything stop his fun before he was ready. He stormed out of the room, ready to replace the rambling boy in chains with one of his blackened servants until he remembered that he hadn’t specifically told his servants he’d wanted the boy watered and fed. So, in theory, this was his own damn fault but he’d never admit that. He didn’t get to be the dominant male by admitting to mistakes and allowing his own thoughtlessness worry him. So instead he grabbed a hapless servant and growled, “feed him, water him. Now.” And left it at that.

He came back two cycles later, and was gratified to see the boy sitting upright and glaring. His eyes had color again and were no longer sunken holes.

“Hello, pet. I’ve brought you a present,” Zarkon said and then attached the steel collar to Keith’s neck. He stood back and smiled at the contrast of the burnished steel with Keith’s dark hair. Keith snarled at the click of the collar but said nothing, did nothing, and his lips were strangely red. Zarkon wondered how those lips would look wrapped around his cock, wanted to feel once more the cool slide of the sharp edged scales on his belly against smooth human flesh.

The boy was sultry and stubborn and had been alone for five cycles. Though he would never admit it, his eyes hungered for the sight of something other than this bare room and the voiceless slaves who brought food and water and emptied the bucket they’d left for his bodily functions. Zarkon assumed that was why the boy wasn’t struggling with the chain attached to an ankle cuff; or it was entirely possible that the whip had done what he’d wanted and the boy now knew a fear so deeply ingrained that even when Zarkon had his cock in the boy’s mouth, was unguarded and vulnerable, he would still be afraid of the pain and the whip and everything that Zarkon could do to his poor, fragile body. He wondered if the boy was afraid enough to wrap his lips willingly around Zarkon’s cock and beg to be fucked.

“Feeling better? More talkative? Why don’t you tell me about this Christmas thing you humans have.” He’d had a chair brought in with him today and he sat comfortably in it, watching the boy’s reactions.

“Saito, comma, Keith--“ Keith began again. Zarkon cut him off with a swift gesture of implied violence. Keith flinched but kept talking. “Rank: Captain.”

“Still the same, I see.” Zarkon said over Keith. He stood and walked closer and was gratified to see the boy fold in on himself, body curling up to protect his genitals. He was also gratified to see Keith stutter to a stop and bite his lip and stain his pretty little lips a deeper crimson.

Zarkon grabbed Keith by his collar, hauled him upright. His breath was hot and rich with smell of fine foods decomposing and it ruffled Keith’s hair like a gentle breeze. He reached for Keith’s wrists with his other hand, cuffed them to the shiny new collar. He ran his tongue over Keith’s cheekbone, smiled at the shudder that started there and then traveled all the way down Keith’s body.

“If you can’t say anything useful with that mouth of yours, I think we’re going to have to find another use for it.” He let go of Keith’s neck and shed his robes. “Now be a good boy and get on your knees.”

Keith gave a garbled reply but the meaning was clear. Zarkon backhanded him, pulled him up again and even though the collar kept him from choking Keith, the grip was still painful enough for Keith to struggle and kick ineffectually at Zarkon’s legs. Zarkon stared at him for a few seconds then dropped him. Keith landed heavily, teeth clicking together as his head hit the floor. He started to rise and Zarkon grabbed his shoulder, pushing down until Keith’s collarbone began to creak ominously and he stopped struggling. He stayed on his knees and clamped his mouth shut, lines of tension wrinkling the smooth planes of his face. Zarkon reached down, gripped Keith’s chin and pressed hard against the joints until Keith opened his mouth. He smiled, felt the pleasure build through his body, felt himself grow hot and stiff, his crest rise and rattle in anticipation. He heard Keith whimper and felt himself grow even harder.

When you were the dominant male, size _did_ matter.

He tightened his grip on Keith’s chin and pulled the boy onto his cock, thrust hard against the soft confines of Keith’s throat. Keith gagged and coughed when Zarkon pulled out, barely had enough time to breathe before Zarkon thrust again and again and again, the smoothness of the tiny little scales that covered his cock running so smoothly against the rough bumps of Keith’s tongue. Blood and saliva dripped out of Keith’s mouth and stained the deep purple of Zarkon’s skin. The sight only heightened Zarkon’s pleasure, the smell of fear and sex and iron and steel made him slightly crazed. And so perhaps he was a bit harder on the boy than he had intended to be, hadn’t meant to make him choke and his eyes roll wildly, but it had been so long since he’d used a soft human mouth, with small blunted teeth, in this particular way. And the aftermath, after he’d spilled his seed deep within the boy’s throat in long, sticky ropes, was beautiful too. The sight of Keith retching, spitting out spunk and blood, long streams of plastic-clear saliva clinging to his chin and lips was fascinatingly arousing.

So, while Keith still trembled and scraped his tongue with his teeth because he couldn’t use his hands, Zarkon moved behind him, still hard, still ready, still wanting.

He could tell that Keith was a virgin with his first thrust. Keith’s ass was tight and dry and so hot that Zarkon had to open his mouth and pant. He used his other cock this time, the one covered in thick, rough, sandpaper-y skin. The one he used on women of his own race because the tiny scales that covered his smooth dick would be torn to shreds by the roughness of his female’s vaginas. He could feel it rasping against Keith’s satin heat, the slick stickiness of blood aiding him in his thrusts. Even through the protective layers of heavy, dead skin the sensation of tearing into this arrogant, prideful boy was more than he could take. He grabbed Keith’s shoulders, dug his claws into the soft pockets of flesh that surrounded the joints and Keith stopped struggling for a moment at the sudden, painful, blinding shock of this second invasion, this second penetration.

Keith made a soft, gurgling noise in the back of his throat and it was just enough to send Zarkon over the edge, ramming himself into Keith with low, grunting violence, the scales on his belly slicing thin slivers of flesh from Keith’s back, shaving away truffle-thin slices.

When he was done, he cleaned himself with Keith’s uniform, which some servant had thoughtlessly left in the room. He turned and walked away from the boy who lay in a small pool of blood and cum and saliva and vomit, shuddering and retching and sweating, and Zarkon thought about sending him back to his friends just as he was, humiliated and naked, leaking spunk and blood and stinking of sex and violence.

*

After awhile, though, raping the boy stopped being fun. He stopped struggling when Zarkon pushed him down, stopped fighting when Zarkon entered him. And he still didn’t say anything useful, give up anything other than his name, rank and serial number.

All in all, it was quite frustrating.

So, after another session, when Keith smelled ripe and had a nothing look in his eyes, Zarkon sent him away, back down into the cells and went back to watching the five boys.

The child still fascinated him.

Zarkon had learned something about females who carried children within their bodies instead of becoming gravid, building a nest and laying eggs like a sensible person. Apparently having to share space with the spawn for however long it took created some sort of attachment to the spawn that went further than the passing of genetic material. Children that were born were somehow more special to their parents than children that clawed their way into being. A backwards philosophy, in Zarkon’s mind, this coddling of a child too weak to force itself onto the world and survive without anyone’s help. Even the male got involved with the spawn of a live birth instead of leaving nest guarding and egg hatching to the female like he should. Human parents seemed to be parodies of true sires and dams. They didn’t even eat their weak spawn! They let the flawed spawn live and procreate, spreading the weakness about the gene pool with no regard for the purity of lineage.

How humans had ever evolved and dominated their own planet Zarkon would never understand, no matter how many hours he spent watching them.

But this strange obsession with their young gave Zarkon an idea.

So he summoned Keith up from the low depths of his castle and had the guards bring the young boy too.

This time when he entered the room, Keith’s eyes had emotion. The old burning hate, stronger than before, gave life to his eyes. Keith was a smart lad. He knew what was going to happen.

Zarkon took in the scene, took in the naked boy he had claimed as his own and the child who looked everywhere but at his commander’s nakedness. Keith was blushing, a phenomenon that Zarkon found absolutely beautiful, since the pale rose color that started at Keith’s cheeks traveled all the way down his body. Zarkon enjoyed the view a moment longer, then started to disrobe. He’d brought two servants with him this time around and Keith eyed them warily.

Zarkon made sure to stay well away from the child. He didn’t want to let Keith in on what he had planned just yet. Instead, he ran a claw down Keith’s chest, watched the blood bloom in its wake. “Keith, my boy,” he said. “You’re looking well.”

“Fuck you,” Keith spat, apparently feeling more courageous than normal with an audience present.

“Tsk, tsk. I think you’re forgetting your place my dear boy.” Zarkon moved around behind Keith gripped his chin in one hand and his cock in the other. He forced Keith to look at Pidge, at the shame the child felt for his captain. “I could fuck you right now, right in front of him. I could make you beg to feel my cock in your sweet ass, to taste my seed, just to keep me from torturing him. What would he think of you then, hmm, when he heard you beg? I could make you feign pleasure, make you cum. Make him think that you enjoyed this.”

“Fuck. You.” Keith tore his chin free from Zarkon’s grasp, leaving five angry cuts. Zarkon growled and let his claws pierce the flesh of Keith’s cock ever so slightly. Keith stilled instantly and his heart sped up until his jugular danced.

“Such a naughty boy you are.” Zarkon let go, walked away. He kept his back to Keith, made Keith think that he was fiddling with the ever-present tray of torture devices. “Well. We’ll see what we can do to fix that.” He turned back to Keith, stood with his arms behind his back. “Now. Are you going to tell me what you were doing in my territory and where you were headed?”

“Saito. Comma. Keith,” Keith said.

“I’ll take that as a no.” Zarkon waved to the two servants. “Gag him. Make sure he watches.” He turned on the child. The youngster’s glasses made his eyes look particularly large and vulnerable. Behind him, he could hear Keith’s struggles as the boy finally-- _finally_ \--understood the stakes of the day. He managed a brief, strangled “Pidge”--Zarkon assumes that this was the child’s name--before the servants finally stuffed a gag into his mouth and secured it. Zarkon ignored the commotion, attention focused entirely on his new prey.

He touched the child’s smooth, round face, caressed it lightly then turned the caress into a vicious, downward swipe that tore the clothes from the boy’s slight body, sent them fluttering to the floor in a heap of green cloth. He grabbed the boy by the throat, hauled him up, planted a biting, vicious kiss on the boy’s soft, tender lips. Pidge screamed into his mouth as he thrust first one rough finger and then another into Pidge. The boy was tight and hot--tighter than Keith by far and Zarkon felt a momentary pang of worry because he didn’t want to _kill_ the youngster. But Keith’s frantic noises and the heat of the boy he held spurred him on and with one quick thrust he was inside the boy who screamed and screamed and screamed.

The vibrations of agony traveled straight from the boy’s throat to Zarkon’s spine. It made him pound into the boy with more brutality than he had perhaps intended, the blood from the boy’s torn flesh splattering against his chest with every obscene thud. The boy practically vibrated in his hands and Zarkon couldn’t help but stare at Keith as he fucked the child that had been placed in Keith’s care. Zarkon wondered what was going through Keith’s mind, wondered if he were he to threaten to kill this boy right now and let his hot blood wash over them both, Keith would let him.

That thought pushed him over the edge and he hissed as he came, mouth gaping open, eyes dilated with pleasure. In that instance he resembled his ancient reptilian ancestors more than the hot-blooded boys he fucked.

Pidge had been reduced to whimpering and when Zarkon pulled him off and tossed him into Keith, who cried hot, silent tears and tried to catch Pidge with his arms bound behind him. Zarkon circled around Keith, rubbed his still hard cock, slick with Pidge’s blood and his own spunk, in the crack of Keith’s ass.

“I’ll do that again tomorrow and the next day and the next until he gets used up. And then I’ll take the next one and the next until I’ve tasted the blood of all of your friends.” He thrust lightly against Keith, felt the boy shiver and recoil. “Or you could tell me what I want to know and I’ll just take you.” Keith made high pitched, desperate noises behind his gag and Zarkon laughed and laughed and laughed because he knew that Keith was going to tell him everything he wanted to hear right now, while he still had the blood of his friend on his ass, tell him lies and truths all bundled together. But Zarkon wanted Keith to stew, to let the knowledge of what he had let happen sink in. So instead he kissed Keith on the cheek, gently and lovingly like he had kissed his mate. He stepped away nodded to the servant who dragged the two boys out of the room, naked and bloody and pale.

“Tomorrow,” he called after Keith. “Tell me tomorrow. And if you refuse, I’ll let you pick the next one I fuck.”

*

Only that tomorrow never came because some time in the night the boys escaped. And as Zarkon stared at the empty cell, at the rust-colored spot of dried blood on the floor he felt for a moment like he wasn’t the biggest, baddest mother-fucker in the Universe. A boy had managed to stand there and suffer everything that Zarkon had thrown at him and reveal nothing.

Nothing because Zarkon had been an idiot drunk on his own power, had let the boy go even though he had been broken. Just for a moment, but he had been broken and Zarkon had let that moment slip away.

For the first time since he had killed his father in the honorable challenge for dominance, Zarkon felt old and afraid. He thought of Lotor and wondered how much longer he had until _he_ was lying on the ground, staring up at his spawn and the business end of a sword.

All because of the one that had gotten away.


End file.
